


Fading Memory

by Tormented_Gale



Category: Tales of the Abyss
Genre: Brief mention of Zaleho, Gen, Memory, Self-Reflection, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 00:27:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2487737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tormented_Gale/pseuds/Tormented_Gale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr Prompt: Write a fading memory of this character.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fading Memory

There are days, when he is in his room, pouring over maps and strategies, that he forgets his origins. He forgets where he came from, forgets what he is, and just exists as a general, a figure of authority, a brilliant strategist, a cunning foe. These are the days he smiles, the days when his wicked grin is shown more often to his men, who know his moods and relax marginally at the obvious look of - well, not peace, but the closest Sync gets. Those days, when his fingers follow battle lines and he pictures himself on the field, his soldiers at the ready, his fellow generals at his sides, he can almost be pleased with himself, with his capability.

Then there are the days he remembers. He remembers what he is, what his origins are, where he came from. The memory is not nearly as crisp as it once was, but it still is a haunting scent, a burning feeling just under his skin where he can’t reach, a choking feeling that wakes him as quickly as the call to arms. He recalls the days of nails digging, digging, digging into his own arms, desperate to reach the buzzing there, but he can never find it, and knows he never will. These are the days soldiers run from him, pretend illness, and he lets them. He might just snap their necks if they are in his presence.

But above all, there is one memory, one that he does not consider to be particularly important if he thinks about it, but it stands out when he forces it to appear from the fog of his mind. It is quiet, unobtrusive, simple, and perhaps that is why every day he forgets a little more of the color, the vibrancy of it, even if he remembers the rigid detail of the tree’s trunk, the colored leaves, the feeling of soft grass between his toes. There’s the smell - fruit, he thinks, mixed with flowers from the nearby hill - and whenever he’s close to a similar scent it brings back the fading fragments of that memory into such stark detail that it jolts him.

The sun on his pale cheeks, the new texture of plant life, the fresh air not filled with sulfur and smoke. The false assumption of freedom, the crushing despair of duty, and the desperate need to survive. The buzzing fades in his skin here, his momentary sanctuary, a place that just lives and allows other beings to live in harmony. It’s a concept he does not really understand, but he can appreciate it, dream of it, even if those too are foreign.

And though it fades, it is a memory he foolishly clings to.


End file.
